At the age of 16, I stole a bottle of Jack.
My father finished his nightcap and fell asleep,
Leaving the bottle outside, unattended.
I silently walked over to the table,
It was half empty,
But something is better than nothing.

Excited, I sneaked the bottle up to my room.

In the dead of the night,
In the company of myself,
I had my first drink.
It stung, it burned
And I hated it.
But I love it too.
Just the sheer thrill of drinking it
was better than Jack itself.

Now, the thrill is long gone.
I drink for other reasons.
Everything is different now.